


In Deed and Truth

by xenachakram12



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Barebacking, Coercion, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Magic, Sex Pollen, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 03:38:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2373107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenachakram12/pseuds/xenachakram12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wonders if he could talk Sam out of this somehow.  Wonders if he could go down on him well enough to make him forget that he asked his brother to fuck him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Deed and Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lizajaneok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizajaneok/gifts).



> Notes about consent: I think different readers would classify this differently, so I'm labeling it as both non-con and dub-con, just in case.
> 
> Many thanks to pletzel for the beta job. <3

Dean isn’t exactly certain what causes it.  It doesn’t matter anyway.  He can speculate all he wants—Did they piss off some witch?  Toast some succubus’s favorite plaything?—but regardless of the cause, Dean knows that what matters is that now he has a big fucking mess to clean up.  What else is new.

It comes on slow, building in the same way a cloud becomes rain.  Dean isn’t sure if it’s that Sam doesn’t feel the effects for a while, or if it’s that he does a damn good job hiding them.  Either way it is hours after a standard salt-and-burn wraps when Dean notices the beads of sweat at Sam’s hairline and rolling down his neck.

“I’m fine,” Sam grumbles as he snatches a clean pair of boxer briefs from his duffle and stomps into the bathroom.  Dean give Sam half an hour before he knocks on the door, demanding to be let in to pee.  Sam unlocks the door though he doesn’t exit the shower stall, and Dean can tell by the unclouded mirror that the water running from the shower head is cold.

At first it’s easy to write off Sam’s restless, unsettled behavior as his normal occasional bitchiness.  Dean watches Sam out of the corner of his eye as Sam struggles with whatever it is this time that is making him a pain in Dean’s ass.  Sam eats, then naps, then eats again.  The next morning Sam runs the shower for way too long for the second time in less than 12 hours, even though the only place they’ve been is to the nearby diner and back.  Dean tries not to pry because Sammy can be such a dick sometimes, but as Sam shifts ceaselessly in the next bed, Dean can’t resist anymore.  “What’s up with you, man?  You sick?”

Sam tilts his head and flicks his glassy eyes at Dean, just for a moment.  “No,” he breathes, heavy and hot.  “I don’t think so.”  Dean can tell he wants to say more, but he doesn’t.  He clears his throat and turns back to the TV.

It’s a cold day out, and the motel isn’t the kind that has coffee pots in the room, so when Dean feels like a pick-me-up, he offers to make a run to the only diner in the whole damn town for some hot, if not gourmet, coffee.  He’s not gone for long but when he walks back in their room twenty minutes later, he finds Sam naked from the waist up and stretched long in his cheap motel bed.  He’s covered to the waist in a thin blanket, but it’s not enough to hide the way Sam is rubbing his legs against each other like a cricket.

“Dean.”  It’s a shock to Dean’s system how that tone of voice hearkens back to a million past moments that he would rather not remember.  Sam shudders like he’s freezing to death, though a sheen of sweat over his sun-dark skin belies that idea.  “Help me.”

Dean doesn’t remember putting the coffee down, but before he realizes he has moved he’s at Sam’s side, running his hands over his clammy skin, searching for external signs of affliction.  At his touch Sam jolts like he’s been tasered, a raw, ecstatic sound tearing from his throat, long and loud and explicit.  Dean pulls his hands back instantaneously, fearful that he’s hurt Sam, until Sam grabs Dean’s nearest hand within his own.  Dean searches Sam’s eyes for an explanation, but once Sam links their fingers together his eyes drop closed his breathing begins to even.

“What’s wrong, Sammy?”  Dean thinks he manages to keep the edge out of his voice.  “Talk to me.”

Shaking his head violently, Sam draws Dean’s hand to graze against the overheated skin of his face and sighs.  Dean feels himself swallow thickly, but he doesn’t retract his hand.  Sam keeps their fingers entwined, guiding their joined hands over his body so that Dean feels the slopes of him against his knuckles: the curve where neck meets shoulder, the firm bump of the clavicle, the valley between pectorals.  Sam uses Dean’s hand like a salve as the contact leaves swathes of goose flesh in its path.

Dean has an idea of what’s going on here; he’s heard plenty of stories of suckers getting hit with sex magic or falling prey to some fertility god’s worship ritual.  The details vary, but the story is basically the same.

“Hey,” Dean says, still soothing.  “I got you, Sammy.  We’re gonna fix this, okay?" 

At that, Sam stills and his eyes rip open, looking into Dean.  He nods almost imperceptibly before letting go of Dean’s hand only to reach for his shoulders and pulling Dean down on top of him.

Suddenly Sam is everywhere, all around him, and Dean struggles as his belly lands on Sam’s chest.  He holds Dean tightly to him, and he’s really fucking strong.  Dean wonders if Sam is always this strong, or if whatever is possessing him is having an effect.  “Whoa,” Dean says as soon as he gets air back in his lungs.  “No way,” he says, his voice firm like he’s reciting the laws of physics, constant and inarguable.  He suddenly forces himself to go limp, sliding from Sam’s grasp and onto the floor beside the bed, shuffling back as quickly as he can to lean against his own bed a few feet away.

Sam leans up briefly, chasing Dean with open hands, and the sheet slides down his torso exposing the side of his hip and draping over his erection in a painfully obvious way.  He doesn’t stay upright for long though, soon falling back into the cheap, flat pillows on the bed and whining like an alley cat.  “Dean…”  Sam draws out the word until it’s a dirty, distorted noise.  “You have to help me.  Please.”

Running his hands over his face, Dean can only shake his head.  “I can’t.  It’s not right.”  Focused on breathing, Dean comes up with a plan.  It’s not exactly original, but he feels accomplished that he is able to think at all.  “I’ll call Bobby, and…  He’ll know.  He’ll tell us what the hell happened to you and how to fix it.”  Sam looks at him, his mouth set in a way that never fails to remind him of the first year Dad missed Christmas.  It is the same then and now, Sam looking at him like Dean could somehow solve his every problem if only they were speaking the same language.

Dean gives a brief, humorless smile and reaches out, intending to only let his fingers graze Sam’s shoulder, offering the small bit of comfort he can.  Sam is one quick fucker though, using those long orangutan arms to grab a fistful of Dean’s shirts and hauling him in close.  Their noses are almost touching when Sam’s voice drops to a low, deadly register.  “I _know_ what’s wrong with me.  I need you, Dean.  You’re the only one who can fix me.”

Sam’s face is carved in stone, immovable.  Dean vaguely understands how much restraint Sam is showing now; he’s seen people beg and cry and bribe when they’re under as hard as Sam is.  He knows what Sam is waiting for, and it floors him.  He wants consent.  He wants Dean’s permission.

“I’ll make it good for you, Dean,” Sam breathes, nodding like he’s selling something.  His eyes are so damn big and earnest, the dim light of the cheap table lamp amplified in them as he whispers in hot puffs of air over Dean’s cheek.  “I’ve learned a lot since Janey Mitchell.”

The name sounds disjointed and out of place in the still air of the room, as if Sam had somehow invoked her presence by saying her name.  It rings a bell though, and it only takes a beat for Dean to remember her: a pretty brunette that Sam had seen briefly in a town whose name Dean can’t remember.  Dean had accidentally walked in on them late one afternoon—Janey and Sam—Sam with his arms too long and the angles of his face too sharp, stuck in that awkward phase between baby fat and the strong jaw he would soon develop.  Hair up in a long ponytail, Janey was leaning back slightly against the wall behind the bed, looking underwhelmed as Sam’s hand disappeared under the loose folds of her skirt.  The girl bolted with one look at Dean, grabbed her stuff and said something as she left, but Dean hardly noticed her.  All he could see was Sam, eyes angry and hard like they always got in those hysterical, bitter moments when Sam too acutely felt the depth of how unlike they were from everyone else.  Sam had stomped out of their shared room and slammed the door, and Dean didn’t go after him.  Dean knew better.  Instead he made Sam macaroni and cheese with cut-up hot dogs, bringing Sam a bowl out to the back porch of the house where they were squatting, the place Dean knew that Sam had parked to stew and seethe.  They ate in companionable silence until Sam’s posture softened and Dean ruffled his hair, knowing he was forgiven.  That night Dean let Sam have a couple of sips of his beer, and as they spoke low and conspiratorially in the twilight, Dean gave him some of his best tips: where to touch her and how, to brush her hair from her face and talk low in her ear while he fingers her, how to get her ready enough that he can slide into her easy.

Sam lets go of Dean’s shirt, blindly searching for Dean’s skin.  He leans his forehead on Dean’s temple, wrapping a broad hand around his throat.  His grip is soft, merely cradling the weight of Deans’ head, but his hand is so large that Dean can feel his fingertips almost all the way to the back of his neck.  Sam could squeeze the life out of Dean with no trouble at all.

It’s a comforting thought, in a way: the idea that Sam can hold Dean’s whole life in one hand and that Dean would let him.  It’s enough to make Dean’s resolve waiver, just for a second.  He doesn’t want this; not really.  He loves his brother more than he loves his own soul—literally—but Dean understands that the curse or the spell or the whatever-the-fuck is only temporary, and his relationship with Sam is permanent if he has anything to say about it.  Once the mojo has run its course, Sam will thank him for not giving in, will respect him for it maybe.

“Sam,” Dean says, like he’s talking a cat out of a tree.  “You’re not thinking straight.  This isn’t what you want.  Once this is out of your system, you’ll see.”

“You’ll never be out of my system,” Sam replies, like he’s having an entirely different conversation.  He huffs a humorless laugh.  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted you?  How long I’ve wished I had the guts to just…”  He shakes his head, making it obvious that he has no intention of finishing the sentence.

“No.”  It’s all Dean can muster.  Absolute refutation.  “You don’t mean that.”

This time when Sam laughs, it’s loud and short and full of pain.  Sam clinches his fists, and Dean can see his control waning.  “You’re an idiot, Dean.”

Suddenly Sam finds the strength to stand.  His long feet hit the ground in front of Dean’s knees and his cover falls from him, leaving him naked and sturdy and towering over Dean.  Both fists find Dean’s shirt now, grabbing and lifting him like nothing more than a sack of flour.  Dean’s on his back on his own bed before he can protest, and he feels Sam’s sheer mass looming over him.  “I could just take it if I wanted,” Sam brags, his voice unnervingly flat.  “You know that, right?  Could just hold you down, get you hard with my mouth.  I know you would.  You’d get hard for me.”

A thickness rises in Dean’s throat.  He doesn’t respond though, doesn’t rise to the challenge.  Sam stares at him hard for long seconds before something in him breaks.  He shakes his head, like a dog shedding water.  “I’m sorry,” Sam says, but it’s superficial, like he’s only apologizing for forgetting himself.  “I don’t mean that.  I wouldn’t…”  Sam trails off, and Dean doesn’t move, hardly even breathes.  “I just need you to understand how much I need this, Dean.”

Dean sees it now.  It’s as bare on Sam’s face as if it were written there.  The magic running through his veins is working its will upon him, a virus searching Sam’s brain like a computer and trying to find every possible argument to get Dean to consent.

“You always know how to take care of me,” Sam breathes, rubbing his face down Dean’s chest and belly.  His face gets so close, too close to Dean’s cock, and Dean holds his breath.  “That’s all this is… you taking care of me.”

“I won’t do it, Sam.”  Dean’s steels his voice, doing his best to leave no room for argument.  “I’ll call every hunter I know.  I’ll drive all night if that’s what it takes.  But I won’t do this to you, no matter what you say.”  Sam groans in his frustration, and Dean uses his distraction to push Sam off of him with his legs.  Sam falls back and Dean jumps up, grabbing his jacket off the back of chair, knowing his cell and keys are in the pocket.  He stands tall, very decidedly not looking at the way his brother huffs on the floor like he’s just fallen of a treadmill mid-run.  “Here’s what’s going to happen.  I’m gonna step out this door and call Bobby… give you a break to pull yourself together.  Then I’m gonna pick us up some dinner, and when I come back, you’re gonna keep your hands to yourself until we can figure out what the hell we’re gonna do.  Got it?”

Sam just stares, too quiet.  Dean pats his jeans pockets for his wallet for just a second too long, because it gives Sam the time to rally his big guns.  His voice is quiet and small, and instinct alone prompts Dean to tilt his head and wait for Sam to repeat himself.

“If you leave, I won’t be here when you get back.”

Ice water runs down the nerves of Dean’s spine.  He can’t speak, but if he could he would be begging.  _No, Sam.  Not that.  Please don’t do this._

“I know there’s something going on with me.  I’m not too far gone to know that,” Sam promises.  “It’s… churning in me.  It feels like venom, and I know,” Sam bangs his hand on his chest in emphasis, “somehow, I just know that if I can work it from my system, I’ll be okay.  But if I don’t, I’ll die.  I’ll die, Dean.  I know it like I know my own name, and if you leave me here…  Well then, I’ll go somewhere else.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut.  Fucking Sam.  Dean can’t allow Sam out there on his own, especially not in this condition.  He’s beautiful and slutty, a perfect combination for a predator, human or demon alike.  Sam knows that; knows that Dean knows what happens to folks when they are vulnerable and have shitty-ass Winchester luck.  Sam knows what he’s threatening and for the moment he’s fucking lucid, which somehow makes it all worse, and in that moment Dean realizes what he should have known all along: either way this goes down, Dean is going to lose.

“So what’s it gonna be, Dean?”  Sam asks, in that smug fucking voice that says that he knows that he’s won.  “Will you help me?”

Dean’s shoulders fall in time with a deep exhale.  He can feel all the air rush out of him, and he takes a beat to gather his strength before he pulls his coat off, one arm at a time, and drops it on the rickety, off-balance table propped up against the wall.  The tension in Sam’s jaw relaxes as well, and he moans as if Dean is already touching him.

Dean doesn’t have to move.  He just waits, holding onto the last bit of ground he has, before Sam finds him and uses his giant paws to drag him down to the thin carpet stretched over the hard, cold cement floor.  He lays back, his eyes on the water spots on the ceiling, barely feeling Sam as he efficiently strips Dean of his clothes, starting with his boots.  Sam is careful, could even be called tender if taken out of context.  Dean grits his teeth and tries to hate this.  He tries to dissociate enough to not be reminded of times Sam put caring hands on him, times he was too sick with the flu to do for himself, or so close to death from electrocution that he let Sam hold him up and fuss over him.

It’s wrong how his body reacts.  Sam hasn’t even really touched him yet, and Dean can feel himself getting hard.  He always knew he was a sick, good-for-nothing fuck, but he almost wants to laugh at how quickly and easily he can prove himself right.  It’s Sam’s goddamn eyes, looking at Dean like he’s the answer to every prayer.  Like he’s all he ever needs in his life.  It’s been a long time since Sam looked at him like that.

Laying on his back, Dean keeps his hands to his sides and just allows.  Sam climbs him like a tree, aligns his body against him until they are toe-to-toe and everything-to-everything.  Sam’s relief is almost palpable; his skin stops twitching, his muscles relax, and Sam makes the same face that he does when he finally takes a piss after hours on the road of refusing to go in a bottle like any normal person.  For a moment Dean thinks it might be enough, that the skin-to-skin contact will sate and soothe him, but before Dean’s hopes get too high Sam begins rutting their bare dicks together and making throaty, violent noises in Dean’s ear.  Sam’s hips work in sure, circular stokes, dragging his heavy, thick length up one side of Dean’s dick and down the other.  Dean’s fully hard now—there’s no arguing it—and Sam grinds against it with a pressure that is just on the sweet side of too much.  Dean hears himself gasp, so he bites his lip and closes his eyes, trying to ignore how easily every part of his body betrays him.

“It’s not enough,” Sam says, his voice panicky, his fingers gripping as hard has he can in the length of Dean’s hair.  “I need more.  I’m so empty.”

Dean’s cock jumps, shameless.  Dean wonders if he could talk Sam out of this somehow.  Wonders if he could go down on him well enough to make him forget that he asked his brother to fuck him.  Sam’s got this feral look in his eye though, and Dean knows that interfering with what the magic wants at this point could be dangerous, to both him and Sam.  So Dean ignores the voice roaring inside him and asks, “You got any stuff?”

And Sam must be a goddamn Boy Scout, because he somehow procures a jar of petroleum jelly from under the nearest bed.  Dean tries not to look, but when he lets his head fall to the side, Sam roughly guides his face forward again by the jaw until they’re looking each other in the eyes.  Sam reaches behind himself, fingers covered in jelly, and Dean hears an obscene squelching noise as Sam pushes fingers into his body with no fanfare or patience.  The muscles in his arm flex at the strain and the angle, and though a morbidly curious part of Dean wants to run his fingers there to feel them as they work, he doesn’t.  He just watches as Sam gets more jelly and shoves it into himself as his eyes roll back into his head.

Sam doesn’t warn him nor asks for his input.  He just lifts up on his knees, his toes digging into the carpet, reaching back to grab Dean’s cock at the base, and angling it just right so that Sam can push himself onto it.  Sam’s eyebrows draw together briefly and Dean has to grip the leg of a nearby chair when Sam clenches around him.  Dean has done this with women before, and he can always tell the experimental girls from the pros by how long it takes them to adjust.  Sam regroups quickly enough—it’s a strange time to feel proud of his brother’s tenacity—but he still works himself down slow like he’s afraid of it.  Dean knows how he feels.

It’s obvious though when Sam finds his sea legs so to speak when he tilts himself just right and sinks down fast enough that he fucking yells when he bottoms out, his dick pulsing as it releases a thick, cloudy forewarning of what’s to come.  Sam rides him high at first, keeping himself vertical, perpendicular to Dean’s prone, too-willing body.  It’s easier that way; easier for Dean to close his eyes and picture someone else.  He thinks about the waitress at the diner down the street, the way she leaned over the counter as Dean approached her.  She was petite but thick in the best ways, and Dean would not have minded taking her for a ride in the car, letting her climb on top of him and bounce on his dick.  But Sam isn’t her.  His body is hard and impossibly long, the only part of him that jiggles with his movement is his dick which bobs and slaps against his flat belly, and when Dean finds himself staring, he quits kidding himself that he could ever distract himself with anyone else.

When Sam leans over him bringing them face-to-face, the flavor changes.  Instead of rough strokes, Sam undulates against him, getting friction on his cock by sliding it against Dean’s belly and pelvis.  Sam finds an angle that he likes and gets leverage by resting his elbows on either side of Dean’s ribcage, hooking his arms under Dean’s shoulders and resting his palms on the crown of Dean’s head until he has Dean totally encased, trapping him as permanently and irrefutably as the grave.

It’s too much; Dean’s too hot and confined, and he can see how close Sam is.  In counterpoint to his hips Sam tightens and relaxes his fingers rhythmically in Dean’s hair, whispering words into Dean’s open, gaping mouth.  Dean feels as they start to wear through the lube, feels the increase in friction and fucking reality, feels how the head of his cock drags against the resistance of muscle inside Sam’s body.  Dean’s hips won’t—can’t stay still anymore.  He thrusts up involuntarily, slamming their pelvises together and jostling Sam forward until his forehead smashes with a sharp crunch into Dean’s nose.  It’s doesn’t matter though; nothing fucking matters now.  Sam sucks in a breath and holds it, coming in hot, long stripes that reach from Dean’s neck to his belly button as the copper penny smell of fresh nose blood hits the air.

Dean shakes, everything bare and bald now, and he can’t recall a time he’s ever felt so desperate.  He looks into Sam’s face, splotchy and debauched and encouraging, so Dean grabs hold of Sam’s hips, digs his heels into the carpet, pushing and pulling, into and out of Sam in a smooth, ceaseless, frantic blur.  Sam’s body still flutters responsively and the words spilling from his mouth are too much to bear, intolerable.  Dean pushes them away, can’t listen, can’t process them.  He rejects them, all beautiful and all lies.  He gets suddenly and immeasurably angry that he wasn’t strong enough or clever enough to prevent this.  Angry that the part of himself that he reserves for others now belongs to Sam along with the rest of him.

One last push and Dean’s coming.  He comes so hard that his abs contract and his balls pulse, and he grapples at Sam like he might fall off the Earth if he doesn’t.  It lasts a long time, but when the last ripples of sensation fade Dean stills, and without the haze of sex and need he finds himself bare and exhausted, overheated with his brother’s naked body draped over him like a blanket.  He feels his dick still inside Sam’s body and covered in his own come; feels as the fluid falls from Sam’s open body when Dean withdraws.

They lay motionless and breathe together, still touching but too raw to stir the air between them.  At least that’s what Dean thinks, until Sam bites hard at the soft lobe of Dean’s ear.  Sam grabs Dean and flips him onto his belly with one hand on his shoulder.  Dean’s face scrapes against the rough fiber of the carpet as Sam hooks his hand under Dean’s pelvic bones and pulls back with them, until Dean’s knees find the floor and his ass is in the air.  “I need to come again,” Sam says, and that’s apparently all the foreplay he feels necessary.  Dean sees Sam reach for the petroleum jelly again, but he doesn’t have the strength to protest, his arms weak and stuck beneath his body.

Dean waits for Sam’s fingers in him.  He closes his eyes tight, preparing himself for the breach of intrusion, but it never comes.  Instead he hears Sam’s rumbling voice in his ear, “Close your legs.  Come on, get your knees together.”  Dean complies with a little assistance from Sam, and in no time he feels Sam push his cock through the space between his thighs, high up enough that Dean feels the drag of friction against his balls.  Sam thrusts are fast and sloppy, the jelly easing the way, and Dean’s dick doesn’t even threaten to get hard again.  Dean just lets his face rest on the dirty rug and hopes, waits, begs for it to be over.

The noise when Sam finally comes again is the combination between a yell and sigh.  He falls hard on Dean’s back, knocking them both to the floor, sweaty and sticky.  Dean guesses they lie there for less than a minute before he feels Sam lift himself from his back, leaving him cold.  There are noises of movement from around the room, but Dean doesn’t bother to move or even open his eyes.  He feels numb and wrung out and decides to hold onto that feeling as long as he can maintain it.  Dean gives a fleeting thought to what Sam must be feeling, but he feels justified enough to not give a shit.

Dean smells soap and humidity just moments before Sam nudges his still prone body in the center of the motel room floor.  Dean’s eyes are sandpaper rough as he opens them, like he’s been asleep for days.  Sam crouches in front of him and has the decency to look like he cares whether Dean lives or dies.  Sam doesn’t seem to be feeling the itch anymore, though it’s possible he’s hiding the magic’s symptoms again.  Dean doubts it.  He knows what Sam looks like now when he’s needy and greedy, and he’ll never again be able to pretend that he doesn’t.  Out of nowhere Dean’s stomach growls, but the thought of food makes him ill so he doesn’t mention it.  Dean pulls himself off the floor, cleaning himself perfunctorily in the already steamy bathroom, before throwing on the clothes closest to the top of his duffle.  He considers putting on the clothes strewn about the room—the ones Sam divested him of—but he doesn’t; can’t.  Dean thinks he might salt and burn them.  After moments of awkward silence—and Sam’s goddamn guilty, hurt face—Dean grabs his coat and reaches for the doorknob.

“Where are you going?”  Sam asks like it might be the last thing he ever says to Dean.  Maybe he thinks it is.

“Going for a drive,” Dean replies, already halfway out the motel room door.  He climbs into the Impala and sits behind the wheel for a while, until he has the dexterity and strength to turn the ignition.  He doesn’t drive far, mostly just circles the two-horse town they’re staying in, the same fucking town that did this to them.  Dean considers picking a direction and driving until he runs into water.  He considers driving to Bobby’s and fixing cars until his best shirt is black with grease and his mind is clear.  He considers renting a second room, crashing there until his bones are no longer tired and he can stand up straight again.  He considers lots of things, most completely implausible, but he doesn’t put hope into them.  He knows where he’ll end up.

Hours later Dean returns to the motel and parks in the same spot he had before he left, as if nothing at all were different instead of fucking everything.  He cracks the seal on a bottle of Jack, and drinks until it’s noticeably lighter.  Times becomes non-linear, and Dean can hardly stand when he unfolds himself from the driver’s seat of the Impala.  It’s almost morning now, and the chilled damp in the air bites at all of Dean’s exposed skin.  Dean hovers for beat in front of the door whose number matches the key in his hand.  The anxiety is his gut builds, mingled up with the booze until he thinks he could throw up, and before Dean can think about it he throws his fist in the brick façade of the wall beside the door.  The predictability of the pain is comforting, for a second, and when the arm rests again down at his side Dean can feel the hot liquid of his life blood running down the tips of his fingers, leaving drops on the cement of the walkway.  Dean wonders what Sam will do; wonders if he’ll ignore it or if he’ll play the devoted brother, scolding him for the self-destruction and bandaging the wound with careful hands but gritted, angry teeth.  Dean balls the fist of the damaged hand to bring the pain of his split knuckles to the forefront of his senses.  He takes a breath and cracks the thin, creaky door open, slipping in and pulling it closed carefully behind him.

\---

_But whoever has the world's goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him? Little children, let us not love with word or with tongue, but in deed and truth_. - 1 John 3:17-18


End file.
